


Slow Dancing

by DistantStorm



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Formal events, People Watching, Post Red War, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Suave!vala, What started with a tumblr prompt and got way out of hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 15:17:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16835209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistantStorm/pseuds/DistantStorm
Summary: A two-part story in which the girls help Suraya prepare for her first ever City Gala and the Commander convinces her to dance with him. Romantic and whatnot.





	1. Chapter 1

Ikora laughed, and it was strangely maternal as she chided, “Stop touching!”

Suraya sighed. She’d never expected to be here, sitting in Ikora’s chambers. Amanda sat on the edge of Ikora’s bed, in some strange maroon pantsuit that looked like a dress when she walked, and complimented the flat boots on her feet that hid her prosthetic so well it was hard to tell she had one.

Ikora was twisting her hair - which, OW, not comfortable - and attempting to pin it. Little pieces kept falling into her face, and it was absolutely ridiculous. She felt like a girl borrowing her mothers’ clothes(even though she’d bought them herself). She bit her lip on letting that one out, just because it was totally not appropriate for present company. “I feel like I’m playing dress up,” Suraya settles on.

“You’re going to woo all the boys,” Amanda told her, with a smirk. “Jus’ wait. They’ll be buying you drinks and offering to dance-”

“Dance?!”

“-and begging to take you home.”

“Wait. Hold up. We have to dance?”

“Yes. It is more or less required.” Ikora looped a long coil of her hair up and under the rest of it. The tentative style promptly fell apart - most likely due to how thick and heavy it was. A hair pin stabbed Suraya in the scalp. The Warlock sighed. “Your hair does not want to cooperate.

“Well, I’m cooperating, so something had to go awry,” The civilian retorts. Ikora shakes her head, that little half smile indicative of amusement sparkling in her eyes more than the upward lilt of her lips. “This should be against some sort of rule. I don’t do fancy, and I absolutely don’t dance. I don’t even know why I’m invited, I’m not even Vanguard.”

“Oh, please, Guardiannnn~”

“AMANDA!” Hawthorne ripped an intricate gold tipped pin from her hair, turned, and threw it at the blonde sitting behind her. It bounced off the gauzy lengths of fabric over the Shipwright’s leg. Ikora grabbed Hawthorne’s wrist before she could reach for another one.

“Hawthorne, please. We don’t have enough time for these antics.” She casts her gaze over her shoulder to Amanda. “And you need to stop teasing her. She can’t help that Zavala decided to have a moment of insanity on the battlefield. They happen every couple centuries.”

“You say insanity, I say he’s in love.” Amanda kicked her feet and watched the skirt-like legholes of her upscale jumpsuit flutter.

“Unless he’s in love with every other person who challenges him on every little detail, I highly doubt that.” Never before had Suraya been so grateful to be wearing a metric ton of makeup to hide the blush that warmed her cheeks at the very thought.

“You do know you guys aren’t actually fighting all the time anymore. You actually agree on things more often than not.”

“That’s totally not-”

“Amanda does have a point.” Ikora tilts her head to face forward, letting Suraya look at her reflection in the mirror while she removes all the pins attempting to hold back ink black hair. “And I am at a loss with what to do with this.” Ikora gathers the bulk of her hair and drops it. “You cannot just leave it down.”

“Oh, um,” Hawthorne says dumbly, looking at her reflection as she thinks about it - glad for the break from whatever Tower gossip said she and the Commander were up to. Even if he called her a - well, y’know - it was the heat of the moment. They didn’t even talk about it after, so it wasn’t a big deal. She was not going to make it a big deal.

“You okay, toots?” Amanda asked her. “You’re kinda zoning out on us.”

Suraya blinked, realizing her ‘not’ thinking was actually plenty of real thinking. Ugh. This is why she stayed in the woods. Less people drama. “What about a braid?”

“You always wear your hair in a braid.”

Suraya shrugged. “Not that kind of braid. A fancier one. There’s a couple kinds.”

“I don’t know how to do braids,” Ikora admits. “I don’t exactly have…” She gestures to her head.

Amanda giggles at that. “Hardly anyone wears them anymore. And most people don’t let their hair grow all wild-like like yours.”

“Thanks, I think?” Suraya smooths out the curtain of black hair trailing down her back and begins to section it off with adept fingers. “Just keep an eye on it and tell me if it looks stupid. I’ll braid, and you guys can put the pins in so it looks like I’m fancy.”

While she looped and pulled, Ikora went through the rundown of events. “We’ll go in, you’ll enter with FOTC, people will cheer, we’ll have a cocktail, and entertain well wishers over hors d'oeuvres. After that is the formal dinner.” Suraya took a big, deep inhale. “The only good news is that you’ll be sitting with us, because they view you as the leader of Humanity, at least where the war effort was concerned.” Ikora pauses, watching Suraya weave the braid down over her left shoulder. “Afterward, Zavala will say a few words and things will-”

“That’s when the party actually starts,” Amanda pipes up, looking up from her handheld. “Everyone basically gets suuuuper drunk and has a good time. You’ll be able to tell by the time cocktail hour is over who to avoid, because they’re the ones that are usually sloshed by dinner.” She smiles. “And don’t agree to dance with Arach Jalal. He’s a monster on the dance floor, even worse than Shaxx.”

“You don’t have to tell me who not to dance with. The answer is everyone.”

“Except Zavala.” Ikora says it quietly, looking to Amanda whose eyes are bright and playful, as she lays the trap.

“I did hear he’s a good dancer,” Suraya comments as she finishes looping a small band around the bottom of the braid to hold it in place.

The Warlock and the Shipwright look back toward the Clan Stewardess with matching grins.

“So,” Amanda asks brightly, “If he asked you to dance, would you?”


	2. Chapter 2

“Alright?” Zavala asks, concerned.

“Yeah.” Suraya tilts her head to look over his shoulder. “There’s just a lot of people staring at us.”

He spins her with a gentle, too-slow twirl, and when he pulls her back in, whispers in her ear. “They’re staring at you because you look positively radiant, Hawthorne. You continue to prove them wrong.” 

And he believes it to be true. He knew she would do what had to be done to appear presentable at the City’s first post-war gala, but she is an absolute vision in cream and gold. The dress hugs curves that are usually hidden, tasteful in the front with a dramatically low back. The trim of gold along the hem of her skirt added just the slightest statement of elegance.

Her blush is a bit more apparent in the bright spotlights spinning over the ballroom floor. She deflects, saying, “See, I thought it was because of you in this uniform.” The hand perched on his bicep slides across an expanse of navy twill and reverently thumbs at the stripes across his chest. He looks down at it, and then up at her eyes. She’s focused on them, like she’s forcing herself to commit them to memory.

“I can assure you, the uniform may be enticing to some,” He murmurs down to the crown of her head, “But most do not care for battle or the intricacies of the political state beyond pushing their own agenda.”

“Is that why you’re dancing with me?” She leans her head back, hand staying in place as brown eyes with the barest spark of mirth nearly twinkle back at him. “Maybe I’m just trying to push my agenda with the Clans. Get the sway of the Consensus and all that.”

“You’re dancing with me because I am a far safer choice than Arach Jalal. I saw him making eyes at you and decided to intervene in your best interest.” He straightens, and they turn around in a series of easy steps. She only looks down once to make sure she’s following his lead. “You’ve already won me over on the idea of Clans. What agenda would you have?”

“Fine, fine. I’ve already swindled you. I’m just keeping on your good side for the sake of any further favors. You’ve caught me.”

“I still asked you to dance,” He reminds her.

“Yeah, yeah.” It’s as close as she’ll get to telling him he’s right. “Lucky for you I said yes. There’s a lady in an absolutely horrible dress - it looks like a mustard stain with fringe -” The little hiss of air leaving his lips is indicative of him laughing, but he gives no other indication. “She’s been staring at you since you brought me out here. I made eye contact during the last song and she glared at me. Want me to bow out and give her a turn?”

“Please do not. I do not wish to discuss faction affairs tonight.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s not talk affairs. But I should know who these people are, right? Mustard Stain is FWC, obviously.” He hums an affirmation into her ear when the music crescendos a bit too loud for her to hear his response.” Makes sense, kind of. The one next to her, in the pink is some booster for New Monarchy?”

Zavala chuckles, a low rumble that bubbles up from his chest. He turns her with a firm hand on her waist. “No. That one.” They sway to the music, their joined hands pointing toward a couple at a different table. “In the blue. Next to the man with the strange hat.”

“By strange you mean ugly, right? The one that has more feathers on his head than Louis has on his entire body?” She leans in close to him to muffle the little puffs of laughter. She’s trying to be ladylike, but it’s not easy when she’s used to being unbridled.

His lips quirk upward. “The very same.” She looks up at him with that sly little smirk that tells him without words she knows he’s laughing inside at the ridiculous style choices of their peers. Not that either of them actually know anything about fashion themselves - practicality was their fashion, but some things just transcend taste by being so unanimously tacky. The song changes, and he relaxes his grasp on her waist. Her fingers twitch in his grip, a little flutter. He moves to release her hand, but she clamps down on his gently enough. 

“We can keep going… if you want.” Her voice is tentative. They’ve stopped swaying to the beat.

He blinks, a bit surprised. The hand around her waist has dropped back to his side. “You are sure?”

“Will it save us from having to schmooze? I’m not very good at schmoozing and already did a lot of it. I also wore flat shoes. Just in case. And also because I don’t know how to walk in heels.” Her smile is gentle. “Besides. You’re not the worst partner I’ve ever had.”

He pulls her back in then, with a hand on her upper back.

“Do you dance often, Hawthorne?”

“Oh, all the time. I also sing to wild animals I encounter.”

He grumbles, “I never should have lent you that book of old fairy tales.”

“Even if it was to read to sick children at the Farm?” He sighs, defeated, and she laughs - a bell-like sound. He commits the sound to memory. “Anyway-”

Zavala, interrupting her, pulls her close. “Hideo just spilled something on himself. It looks like it’s going to stain.” Suraya turns to look, eyes lighting up in sadistic glee, and he moves a hand up to the back of her head. “Don’t turn around and look, you’ll make it obvious.”

“Okay… but you can’t tell me he just did that and- ooh whoa-”

He spins her out with a quick snap of his hands. Luckily enough she gets the idea and moves in the direction he’s pushing her, feet catching up gracefully enough. When she twirls back in, she’s glaring at him, and her hand digs into the meat of his bicep, hard.

“Not okay. Give me some warning the next time you do that.”

“You did fine. Spin again,” Suraya complies begrudgingly, and he slows her, releasing their joined hands as she completes a spin that keeps her close to him. “Good. Let go.” A pause. “Once more. Just like that.” A hand slides across her front. “I’ve got you. Follow my lead.” And then, “Well done.”

She flushes and he keeps her back to his chest. Takes his other hand delicately. Even though she knows it’s to allow her to see the drunken mess that is the Executor of New Monarchy require three people to attend to his wine spill and subsequent meltdown, but she can’t help but feel hyper aware of his breath on her neck and the hand splayed across her abdomen to hold her close to him.

This time, when she feels the slight tug on her arm that indicates he’s going to spin her back, she ends up chest to chest with him, his warm hand grazing delicate skin at the small of her back just above the dip of the low back of her dress. His finger notches in the dip of a small scar, and she feels his hand shift so that he can thumb at it gently.

“Where did you get this?” He asks, as they continue their routine a bit closer together. It’s easier for her to focus when he’s talking to her, rather than when they’re just looking into each other’s eyes or those of others who stand judging from the sidelines. His voice is a low rumble she feels more than hears now, and the heat of his hand is strange and exciting against her back.

“Long before the war. Stupid accident. I fell down a ravine or something. Forgot it was there, honestly. Can I retcon and say I got it fighting a wolf? That sounds way cooler.”

“Unnecessary. You need not worry about being ‘cool’ with me,” Zavala replies. He continues to rub his thumb against the different textures of the skin of her back in a gentle caress. “I’m going to dip you now,” He tells her a moment later, followed by, “Relax into my grip. I won’t drop you.”

“Oh..kay.”

The palm on the small of her back slides up into something firmer, and she realizes that he’s truly suspending her up with one hand; Any weight on her legs has been given away. He looks down at her, eyes startlingly gentle. He bends her back upright gently, and her feet reclaim the rest of her body-weight, slight, but a vast difference from a moment before.

Her cheek finds purchase against soft navy twill and her hand snakes up to his shoulder blade. “Too much?” He asks her, surprised at the close proximity, but not unwelcoming of it.

“Not at all,” Suraya whispers into his ear, angling her chin up slightly. “You’re really good at this.”

He hums, unused to the praise, and she relaxes against him. It feels nice. Comfortable in a way that has him completely on edge. It’s anticipation, he realizes. He isn’t sure for what - or maybe he has some idea, but now isn’t the time to think on it. This has become a moment he wishes to savor.

The song changes again, and this one is a bit faster. He puts a little distance between them, feels the thunder of his heartbeat slow just a touch without her head against him. “Feel free to let me know if it’s too much.”

A nod greets him, along with twin dark eyes. She looks less intimidated and more playful. It’s a welcome change from the tense posture and anxious gaze she’d had at the beginning of the night, when he’d nimbly stepped between her and the Dead Orbit leader. “Alright,” She agrees.

It takes her a second to get the steps right, her eyes dropping down to watch his boots and get an idea for how they’re supposed to step. When she lifts her eyes back up, she sees the smile in his eyes. Zavala has clearly been watching her watch his feet.

“What?” Hawthorne looks a little agitated at being found out. She’s already way out of her element as it is, and this is exceedingly embarrassing.

“You don’t need to see my steps,” He tells her. “Keep your eyes on mine.”

Suraya rolls her eyes but does as instructed. “Hope your Ghost won’t mind mending your toes then, when I step on them.”

“You won’t.”

“Suuuuure.”

“This song has the same tempo most of the way through. You have the steps for the first part. They’re the most difficult.” It’s a lie, but she’s all mind over matter and he knows it. The hand on her hip that grazes the bare skin of her back tightens ever so slightly and makes her straighten. “Feel my hand?” She nods. “I’ll guide you with it. Half of dancing is trusting your partner.” His eyes almost arc lightning when he looks at her, they’re so vivid. “Do you trust me, Suraya?”

“Yes.”

There is no hesitation, no split-second delay or snarky comment to belittle her decision, make it less serious. Her eyes are warm on his, her lips just slightly upturned in a smile.

“Are you that surprised?” She asks him, eyes never straying from his own. It takes a second for him to realize he hasn’t actually responded, or maybe even breathed since she answered him. He recovers as she says, “You know, I wouldn’t have agreed to stay here or -” He spins her, “Any of this if it weren’t for you… trusting me first.”

“I - it’s nice to hear,” He admits. “You aren’t exactly forthcoming.”

She frowns. “I’m more forthcoming with you than with anyone else.” Her cheeks burn, but she does not take it back even if she looks away.

The song begins to transition, and he drops his palm from her back. “Let’s go get a drink, shall we?” She bites her lip, and he feels a sinking feeling in his gut that’s startling. Softer, he says, “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

She nods, still looking a bit conflicted, but for a different reason. Surprising herself, she finds that she might not mind if they would kept dancing, despite the more serious turn of conversation. She actually enjoyed it. But, a break would probably be for the best. “Lead the way.”

He does, but not in the way she expects. His hand slides down her back and guides her as if they’re still dancing. It makes her feel warm and tingly. It feels romantic.

Does he know it’s romantic? Does he mean it like that? She wonders, but knows she will absolutely never ask and hope for some better context clues.

By the time they reach the bar, he motions for her to take a seat on the lone unoccupied stool. His hand stays the course, even when he uses the other to flag down a smartly dressed bartender to provide them with whiskey, and he angles himself so he’s mostly behind her, but able to see the side of her face.

“So,” She says, once she’s had a solid swallow of amber liquid - expensive amber liquid, she reminds herself. She needs to be careful about how much of this she drinks. It is far more refined than anything she’s had in a long time. Alcohol doesn’t exactly allow for precise shooting or high response time, so she normally avoids it. “Wow. I’ll have to readjust to his stuff.”

He places his glass next to hers on the bar. “Strong?”

“Not really. Just nicer than what I’m used to. We didn’t exactly have a distillery at the Farm, and I’m not exactly a lush. I’ll need to pace myself if I’m going to live through a couple more fingers of this stuff.”

His fingers twitch on her back when he laughs. “Fair play. Feel free to get whatever you’d prefer next time the bartender comes around.”

“This is fine,” She raises the glass to him, the curve of her hand around it as she bends her wrist back to present the unoccupied side to him. “Cheers,” She calls.

Their glasses clink quietly amongst the din of the quartet playing, people talking, and all the carrying on of the room. He leans in, lips just above the exposed shell of her ear and rumbles low. “Cheers, Suraya.”

She smiles at him, sweet and true, tipping her head back to take another pull from the glass - far smaller than the first. People around them, noticing the Commander, begin to push in. He feels the moment when her spine stiffens, ramrod straight and slides his hand up the length of her vertebrae and back down. He puts his back to hers, shielding her from the majority of it.

Someone from New Monarchy has approached with their entourage in tow cooing their congratulations for the Vanguard’s victory over the Cabal. Zavala immediately deflects, explaining how their victory was a group effort, and that it would have been unattainable without the help of some very capable civilians. There’s some polite laughing and shrugging off of his point, and then more of the trademark flattery that makes her want to gag.

She will never fit in with these people. Hers are the kind on the streets, scrambling to put together work, meals, and a home for their family. Those are the ones who stood beside the Vanguard at the City gates while New Monarchy hid out in their bunker and waited out the storm.

She must have sighed hard enough that he felt it - obviously he’s able to feel the movement of her back against his without the metal plating of his armor - because a moment later, he leans forward and puts the hand not cradling what’s left of his drink behind his back, against her skin. It’s a bit weird of an arrangement, his thumb smoothing over the notch of a vertebrae, but it’s soothing enough that she relaxes her spine again.

He manages to get them to pause long enough to turn back around and place his empty glass on the bar. She nudges her refill his way - she needed one if she was going to listen to this horrendous political appeal - but he refuses. “It’s more of a reprieve if I wait for a drink,” He whispers in her ear.

Her smirk is like fire. “It would be more of a reprieve if you danced with me again,” She says, pushing away her glass. She twists and puts a hand on his chest, over his heart. “Unless you’d rather listen to your subjects some more.”

If she notices his sharp inhale at her bolder than usual touch, she certainly does not say anything, instead slipping off of the stool with a shuffle of taffeta and a glitter of gold. Her eyes stay on his, but her hand drops down one muscular arm and hooks the pads of wide, calloused fingers with her own equally as calloused but slender ones.

“Please excuse us,” Suraya says, strangely demurely when she enters the circle of New Monarchy boosters. She schools her features into something strangely reminiscent of his own polite disapproval as she steps just slightly in front of their entwined fingers and squeezes them softly. “The Commander promised me another dance before the night ends,” She says softly. “And I love this song.”

Their disdain is almost palpable, but well controlled because of the presence of so many others around them. One, a woman pipes up. “Do you even know what song this is?”

The burning retort is on her lips, but she reigns herself in. “It’s called ‘Hikari,’” Suraya shoots back, somehow without a shred of malice. “The original arrangement was made for an orchestra, and before that, I believe it was a piece for an old game, before the collapse. I personally prefer the string arrangement, but that’s just me.” When there’s no retort because she sounds ritzy enough, she continues. “Anyway, I’d really like to dance to this song, so…” She tugs on his hand and he moves with her without any resistance.

Once they’re beyond the reach of the naysayers of the faction, Zavala rearranges his grasp on her fingers, so they’re interlocked. “You know this piece?” He doesn’t, but it’s slow enough to get by.

She’s bashful and ducks her head. “I like old music.”

Zavala’s nod goes unnoticed, and he steps around her to bring her onto the floor. They fall back into step easily enough. A moment later, he says, “Perhaps I would take you to see the symphony, if you would be amenable?”

As soon as the words leave his lips, he dips her without any prior indication. She doesn’t flinch this time, and allows herself to bend back lower than before. When she comes back up and he swirls her around in in several steps that move them counterclockwise, she puts a hand on the back of his neck, index finger grazing the smooth skin at the base of his crown while her thumb swipes over the slightest peek of tattoo above his high collar.

His eyes flutter shut for the briefest of moments, and she knows for fact that everything she was wondering about his actions being potentially romantic is confirmed. Amanda is never going to let her live this down, but she can’t help but to smile and step in closer to him. “The symphony, huh?” She cocks her head when his eyes open. “I think I could be persuaded.”

The smile she receives could honestly blind someone, she thinks. His eyes are so bright and enchanting, it’s criminal. “Fantastic,” He breathes into her ear, following up with a gentle kiss to her cheek that leaves her breathless. There’s absolutely no way to hide the flush of her cheeks now.

A few songs later, the tempo picks up into something waltzy, less soft and slow. She picks her head up from where it’s drifted to his shoulder. “Zavala?”

His eyes are half-closed. Only a peek of arc-blue irises are visible, focused on her face. Whatever’s come over them, it does not pay any mind to the change in tone as they sway together. “Hmm?”

“It might take a while for the City to rebuild enough to have a place for a symphony. Maybe we could do something else before then?”

“Are you impatient, Suraya? I am not going anywhere.”

The fingers on the back of his dress blues tighten. “I know. But I like this. And the idea of maybe doing something with you that isn’t this but that I don’t have to wait months for.” The words kind of fall out in a tumble, but she knows if she doesn’t force them out however they’ll come, she might not have the nerve.

He pulls back, noting the change in tempo. “Are you asking me on a date?” His blue eyes are wide and surprise is obvious in his face.

“You did it first!” She chides loudly, turning redder than before as he repositions them to follow along with the rest of the dancers in the waltz. No one is looking at them, thankfully. She lowers the volume. “But, for the record, yes. I am.”

There’s a pause as he instructs her how to spin and which palm to put against his as they do so. “Dinner, then? Sometime this week, perhaps?”

She smiles. “I’d like that.”

“I would, too.”

They dance on.


End file.
